Controlling Christine, Book Two

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

The Fitting

John

The next morning, Christine began the daily cycle all over again, appearing to have somewhat accommodated herself to the fact that she was going to be kept busy and continually supervised by the uncaring computer. I wanted her to feel her slavery intensely, and know without question that she was a prisoner. That was what she’d expressed as her ultimate desire so many months ago, and the fact that modern technology had been harnessed to ensure that she was kept that way and constantly-controlled, only added a greater depth to her feelings of despair at ever escaping her fate.

I had decided to employ her biology against her, and she was therefore subject to being fitted with the invasive, uncomfortable, and without doubt, sometimes quite painful devices she now wore at all times. Of course she was utterly unable to remove any of them and was totally vulnerable to whatever stimuli I decided were to be applied. Although this was obvious, the affect on her personality, emotions, and general view of the world was substantial. What before had been a buried masochism and subservience had now blossomed dramatically under my increasingly stringent governance of her life. Somehow, her dark desires transformed the confinement, control and general discomfort of her situation; turning them into a form of pleasure, while at the same time orienting her to her new place in the scheme of things. To any other woman, I supposed, the very completeness of this situation, it’s continuing enhancements, and the punishments she was constantly subjected to, would have driven them to madness, but it appeared Christine was actually thriving on it! I suppose part of her acceptance was the fact that she was kept overwhelmingly satiated by the thundering, multiple orgasms wrung from her body every day, and she knew there was no way to avoid having them forced upon her. As a man, it was impossible to put myself in her female head-space or to grasp the sense of helplessness and deep sense of vulnerability that was now constantly her lot. Nevertheless, I intended that she would experience her particularly feminine forms of captivity fully.

She perched quietly on her stool while I prepared our breakfast, watching me through half-closed eyes while I moved around the cozy kitchen. This morning she’d chosen an ankle-length house-coat to wear over her equipment, and the thick, soft, blue velvet hid everything but her collar and nose rings. The elasticized bodice was snug over her bounteous chest, slightly obscuring the breast cup milker connections, while the long wide sleeves effectively hid her wrist cuffs and their Reminder Chains. The material was gathered above the steel bands, flaring out in ruffles over her delicately-boned, small hands and her slippered feet peeped from under the hem of the gown, as did the wire of her leash, leading off to its distant fastening to the ring at the foot of my bed. When it got in her way now, I noted that she automatically and unconsciously cleared it from entanglement with short kicks of her feet, despite the wriggling of the ‘Bar between her thighs whenever she did. Her kicks were limited though, in that the hobbles she wore snubbed each of her snugly and thickly cuffed ankles to a maximum movement of some six inches before their chains snapped tight. In her lap, her hands played with the links within her sleeves.

“Master? H-h-how long do I have to stay on this schedule?”

“Well, honey,” I replied, turning to inspect her, drinking in the sight of her confined beauty, “you’re going to be on it for the foreseeable future as far as I’m concerned. Basically, the rest of your life.”

“Ohhh!” was all she said, kicking petulantly at her wire leash and looking down at the floor.

“I think it’s time we started planning our wedding,” I said, taking her mind off the endless vista of continued captivity and discipline. She brightened immediately and looked up.

“M-Master?? Are you really serious?” she asked, smiling hopefully.

“Absolutely!” I smiled back, watching while she adjusted to the fact that she was soon to become mine, totally and legally; as well as being already inescapably, physically a captive. “Perhaps you’d like to start planning when to have the happy event and who you want as your friends and bridesmaids and all that stuff. I figure sometime within the next two months.”

“Oh, this is great!” she exclaimed, a smile of happy anticipation lighting her face when she slipped from her perch and came to me with quick, hobbled steps, then reached around my waist and hugged me. She leant back after a moment and stared up into my eyes, her nose rings glittering and flashing when she shook her head. “I’m going to be so busy planning all this in my free time!”

“I’ll adjust your schedule a little,” I said, “and you can do pretty much whatever you want as far as the Ceremony, Reception and all the other stuff is concerned.”

“Oh, thank you, Master!” she beamed, returning to her perch with clinking little paces while I brought over breakfast and set it before her.

“There are some ground rules though Christine,” I cautioned. “One of them is that you will be kept fully confined in your Chastity Belt and Bra at all times, as you are now, and you’ll also always wear an Inhibitor Bar, your hobbles, Reminder Chains, and of course your rings.”

Her face fell, but she brightened almost immediately.

“I think I can manage that, Master,” she smiled, shivering a little at the thought that although she’d be dressed in a classical, long, white wedding dress; beneath it and unbeknownst to the observing world, she’d be completely confined and controlled. Suddenly, she smiled over at me. “I want Danielle as my Maid of Honour. She got us together and I think she would be entirely appropriate. What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me,” I replied around a mouth full of toast and jam. “Perhaps Jeff will fly over from the UK as my Best Man.”

“Oh! This is going to be so much fun!” she bubbled, already working on the details of the big event.

We continued batting ideas back and forth across the table for the next ten or fifteen minutes, coming up with a generalized schedule and chain of events while she jotted down the general plans; Wrist Reminder chains jingling merrily with every movement of her arms. I knew she’d soon have it refined to a fully detailed schedule and would follow through on every step from arranging the choice and fittings of her gown, to the band to play at the reception. It should prove interesting, I thought, to see how she got around being unable to sit down, and how she planned to explain away the presence of her nose rings. She was deeply engrossed in the detailed work of planning the event when she suddenly sat upright with a shocked gasp, dropping the pen to the floor, her hands clutching at her encased breasts.

“EEeaaahhh!!” she yelped when they received a set of warning shocks.

The computer had signalled it was time for her to go for her morning milking session. She turned to me, her face draining of colour when more shocks needled through her ringed, turgid, untouchable n*****s and breasts.

“Ooohh! M-M-Master! Please make them ssttopp!?” she begged, jumping from the high stool to stand before me, unashamedly shaking her imprisoned upper body and writhing with each series of increasingly intense electrical pulses. Her hands and fingers clawed at the material of her gown, pulling on the fixtures at the apexes of each breast, desperately attempting to pull the cups away from her body, but of course they barely moved for their fastenings were far too secure and the tight bra harness allowed no release.

“OOOooohhh, Ggggoooddd!!! AAARRR!!!” She began to scream, continuing to shake her chest frenziedly. “M-M-make them sssttoopp!! Ooooh, pplleeaassee! P-p-please ... Masterrrrr-eeeeaa!!!”

“I think you’re supposed to go for your next milking session Christine,” I said complacently, glancing down at my watch when the electrical discipline subsided for a moment.

“Ohohohoh, God!” she wailed, then turned and ran as fast as her hobbles permitted to her Milking Parlour. While she sped down the hall, I heard gasps and shrieks torn from her again when the shocks became stronger, driving her pitilessly to her fate. I followed leisurely along behind and when she entered the Playroom her cries suddenly cut off in mid-stream when her speech-inhibitor became active. She hurried across to the special cell and once inside, frenziedly tore off her house coat and began the process of connecting herself to the machinery.

As soon as the hoses and wires had been attached, the shocks momentarily let up, then she reluctantly picked up the mask/helmet, fumbling to put it on before they started again, and a moment later stared silently out at me from within the confinement of the thick glass and rubber device encasing and locked over her head. I watched her eyes clench shut in discomfort with interest when the mask’s interior latches gripped her nose rings and placed tension on them, drawing the cold rubber more tightly against her terrified face into an airtight seal. Of course, when this happened, she knew there was now no possible way for her to free herself of it and the integral gag pad keeping her silent but for small moaning gasps. The only sounds in the chamber were the muffled slithering of her leash and clinking of her hobble chains for the noise of her breathing, and any cries she might make would be kept contained within the mask and air hoses leading to it. She stood trembling with fearful, panicky, subdued sobs, shaking her harnessed shoulders while I connected the restraining straps to her undergarment’s, prior to being suspended and isolated. Christine winced apprehensively while I fastened her and tears squeezed from her eyes, trickling down over the inner mask; it concealing all but a small area around each one.

The machinery performed a self-test, causing her to writhe madly against her restraints, desperate to be freed, but I just waved and walked to the door, closing it while she was slowly hoisted into the air. Within the Chamber, the face-plate of her helmet darkened, then turned to a silvery sheen on the outside, leaving her once more in a black, soundless void, dangling in nothingness.

Back in the observation/control room I saw the hoses began to surge and pulse, twitching rhythmically back and forth while she struggled instinctually. Her schedule was a full one and she’d be kept busy with a variety of tasks and duties until bedtime. After a couple of minutes of observing her frenzied struggles, I left her to the tender mercies of the computer, then went to the household office to begin planning my own the day. The computer would alert me when she was ready to be released to begin the rest of hers and she’d be kept under its control until dinnertime. For me, the time flew by, and it seemed as though I’d only just sat down, before a discreet chime sounded, announcing that her milking had been completed. I returned to the Playroom and released her and she stared dazedly up at me when the mask and helmet came off, sweat streaking her face. By this point Christine knew that she wasn’t allowed speech in the Playroom, so with a resigned shrug of her shoulders and a tremulous little smile playing around her lips, she slipped from the room and went for her shower. An hour later she was confined once more, this time in her classroom, masked, gagged, and wearing her ‘School Uniform’ while she was compelled to learn the typing skills needed for the rest of her education. Back in my office, I occasionally glanced at the monitor showing her fastened to her seat, desperately attempting to keep up with her Instructress’ demands; fighting against her restraints whenever she was corrected.

Christine’s day was unfolding as it should: she was securely restrained, computer-monitored, and utterly incapable of escape. I slipped out of the house and drove to my downtown office to complete work that required my direct supervision, knowing she would be fully guarded by my electronic servant until I returned, sometime late in the evening.

Christine

The days and weeks seemed to fly by after my Master gave me the go-ahead to plan for our wedding, despite the rigorous and always uncomfortable schedule I had to follow. I worked at it constantly in what little free time I was permitted during the week, and on the weekends. Otherwise, every day without exception, I had to be milked and do my exercises. I gradually got used to the, at first, awful process of being suckled by a machine, feeling deeply embarrassed and humiliated when the rubber lips latched onto my n*****s just like a cow, but soon, I began to crave the sensations I was subjected to when my breasts were connected to the milker, and the associated orgasms accompanying them.